The Last Conquest (28 page)

‘Well?’ said the Duke.

Ranulf shrugged. ‘I am sure your Grace is aware of the appalling difficulties under which I am labouring—’

William interrupted him. ‘I want progress, not difficulties.’

Ranulf winced at another spasm of pain in his leg, and eased it into a better position.

‘If your Grace would take the trouble to—’

This time it was Bishop Geoffrey de Montbrai who interrupted.

‘What my lord the Duke means is that, while he is fully aware of the diverse problems you have to deal with, he is so confident in your ability to overcome them that he is anxious to hear
of the many and imaginative ways in which you have done so.’

‘Ah. Well. In that case . . .’

Sir Walter Giffard and Sir Roger of Montgomery smiled furtively at each other.

When Ranulf talked about his profession he was forthright and precise. He gave a long list of tasks still to be completed, and made dismal forecasts about the possible effect of future bad
weather slowing the work, but to William and his senior commanders it was clear that the castle was substantially complete. They could see that the hall around them was already well advanced, a
sure sign that Ranulf was secretly satisfied with the progress of the military features of the building. He went so far as to admit that Baldwin’s fatigue parties had laid in
‘adequate’ supplies of fresh building timber, though he could not resist an aside about its ‘questionable quality’.

Baldwin harrumphed in disgust, but the Duke ignored him.

‘So we are ready.’

Ranulf made a face. ‘I should not go so far as that, my lord. When one considers the many unknown factors – the size of Harold’s army, the possible speed of his attack, whether
or not he will be equipped with siege equipment, the questionable loyalty of mercenary soldiers in an unfamiliar defensive role, the attitude of civilian labourers . . . and even if we win the
battle, the whole business of a military occupation is teeming with difficulties.’

William leaned forward.

‘Are we ready?’

Ranulf grimaced again, as if admissions were like bad teeth being extracted.

‘Well, my lord, the situation is far from satisfactory, but, given the many difficulties that are at the moment insuperable and therefore must be borne, and bearing in mind that we know
nothing – nothing – about the scale of the enemy’s operations, I should say, on balance, taking things all round, we are about as ready as we are ever likely to be.’

William sat back satisfied.

Giffard glanced again at Montgomery. That was a major statement from Ranulf. Things must be going very well indeed.

Giffard turned back to the Duke. ‘Well, sir, what do we do now?’

‘We wait.’

Messages had arrived from my lady Matilda on the evening tide: ‘You followed your instincts with me; now follow your instincts with England.’

‘We wait,’ repeated William.

‘Is that all?’

‘Any better ideas, Walter?’ asked Fitzosbern.

Giffard gestured vaguely. ‘Well, no . . .’

‘Good,’ said Fitzosbern.

When Giffard still looked dissatisfied, Fitzosbern spoke again.

‘Look, Walter, we have our defences complete, thanks to Ranulf.’ Ranulf inclined his body slightly in stiff deference. ‘Baldwin has built up good supplies of fuel, fodder,
weapons and food.’ Baldwin preened himself. ‘We have a plan, we have defence, we have good training, and we are masters of the local ground.’

‘And we do not know where in Hell the enemy is,’ said Giffard.

‘Just so,’ agreed Fitzosbern blandly. ‘But we have had patrols out in all directions, some halfway to London. Harold will come, and when he does we shall know, and we shall be
ready.’

‘And we shall win,’ said the Duke.

Geoffrey de Montbrai put a hand on Giffard’s arm.

‘I am sorry, Walter. All we can promise you is a victory, not the date of it. You will have to be content with that.’

Everyone chuckled, and the mood of the meeting relaxed.

A pot boy appeared with food and drink, and another made up the fire in Ranulf’s new hearth.

‘Where is Taillefer?’ said someone. ‘Time for a story.’

William and Fitzosbern exchanged glances. William’s eyes suggested it might be a good idea. Fitzosbern’s replied that there was nothing else, under the circumstances, that they could
usefully do.

‘Taillefer!’

Gilbert shook him for the third time.

‘Wake, damn you, wake!’

Sir Baldwin had made it clear: ‘I do not give a curse where he is, or what state he is in. The Duke wants him. Get him.’

‘But, sir, he is not young any more. We have had a long day.’

Baldwin remembered he had an ally in Gilbert. He took the edge out of his voice.

‘Look about you, son. This army is poised, strung tight like a bowstring. We have everything we need except a battle. At this moment our enemy is not the Saxons; it is boredom. If there is
one man whose life is given to fighting boredom it is Taillefer. ‘

Gilbert nodded, and made off.

‘Besides,’ shouted Baldwin after him, ‘he will do anything for a free drink.’

At last Taillefer stirred.

To Gilbert’s surprise, he made no complaint. He sat up slowly, and opened and closed his baggy eyes several times. He flapped a wrist.

‘A cloth soaked in cold water. And a drink.’

‘Taillefer, they do not give free drink at the Duke’s kitchen.’

‘Bah! Tell them it is I, Taillefer, the Duke’s minstrel, who has need of it.’

The normal weariness in the voice was being replaced with authority. After a brief worried glance back at him, Gilbert did as he was told.

When he returned, Taillefer was standing up. Gilbert squinted at him in the bad light. He looked different. It was not merely that he had picked the wisps of straw from his clothes or pushed the
straggling locks of grey hair from his high, veined temples. Nor even that he was wearing a richer cloak. There was a gleam in the eye, a tension in the body, that Gilbert found oddly exciting.

Without a trace of shame, Taillefer stuck Edwin’s dagger into his scabbard. He adjusted the folds of his tunic and gave a decisive hitch to his belt.

Suddenly a fit of coughing doubled him up. Gilbert put down the water and the beer and rushed to help him. Taillefer waved him away.

‘Only a minute,’ he managed to gasp between the seizures.

Gilbert waited helpless until the attack passed.

Taillefer stood up again and motioned for the water-soaked cloth. He held it to his forehead, his cheeks, his drooping jowls, the back of his neck, even his wrists. Then he shut his eyes and
began taking wary, long breaths, as if testing to see how deeply he could inhale without the cough catching him again. At last he opened his eyes, and caught sight of Gilbert’s anxious
gaze.

‘I must get it right, do you see?’

‘But surely, Taillefer, if you are ill, the Duke will understand. You have had these attacks before. I know. Sandor has told me.’

Taillefer shook his head. ‘No one will “understand”. I am a minstrel; I must perform. If I do not, why am I here?’

‘You may die if you do not rest,’ said Gilbert. ‘I have heard of this coughing sickness. One of my cousins died of it.’

Taillefer looked directly at him, and for the first time smiled almost fondly at him.

‘We all have our duty to do. Your duty is to find the enemy. The soldiers’ duty is to fight the enemy. Your lord Geoffrey’s duty is to train a man’s body and his horse.
The priests prepare a man’s soul. And I – Taillefer, prince of minstrels – lift a man’s heart. What would you have me do – leave these men to face death alone because
I am afraid to take the same risk, albeit in another way? Where is the honour in that? A soldier can not miss a battle and keep his honour. I am a performer; I can not miss a performance and hope
to keep mine.’

He took some deep breaths again, and seemed satisfied with the result. ‘A soldier keeps his weapons in good order,’ said Taillefer. He pointed to his own chest and took an impressive
breath. ‘This is my weapon. Without it, I am no minstrel.’ Then he checked the silver clasp at his neck, and held out his hand for the beer. He drained the cup, wiped his mouth, and
composed himself.

‘And now,’ he said, ‘lead me on. When we arrive, you announce me.’

‘What?’

Taillefer’s eyes gleamed. ‘Bang with your sword hilt on the door.’

Gilbert gaped. ‘What do I say?’

‘You will think of something.’

Gilbert led the way, in a sweat of doubt and worry.

The hall was full to bursting. The word had flown fast. Men of all ranks had crowded in from every corner of the camp.

The Duke did not have his usual raised platform; Ranulf’s carpenters had not had the time to construct one. Instead he sat at ease in an improvised chair, deep amidst his senior vassals.
He did not say much, as was his custom, but he listened in quiet, slightly amused contentment to the ribaldry that was going on around him. To the careless glance, he was relaxed; to the shrewd
gaze, his eyes, sharp and restless in the still head, were proof of bowstring tension.

Gilbert was again struck by the amount of familiarity the Duke was prepared to tolerate, yet amid all the closeness and laughing and thigh-slapping there was not one flicker of disrespect.

On either side of the Duke sat his two half-brothers, Bishop Odo of Bayeux and Count Robert of Mortain. Sir William Fitzosbern was close by; so was Gilbert’s old master, Bishop Geoffrey of
Coutances. Behind him Sir Walter Giffard was sharing a joke with his old comrade, Sir Roger of Montgomery. Behind them again, Count Alan of Brittany was deep in a garrulous story with young Robert
of Beaumont. All around them were the men who had led their levy of knights to swell the Duke’s cause – and their own fortunes – in the great enterprise of England: Sir Ralph de
Tosny, Sir William de Warenne, Sir Hugh of Grandmesnil, Count Eustace of Boulogne, Hugh of Montfort, William of Evreux, Turstin Fitzrou, and a score of others. All of them thought the supreme prize
worth the supreme wager.

Beyond their benches and stools was packed a dense mass of soldiery. The Duke had raised no objection.

‘Let them come,’ he said, shrugging. ‘It is cold outside. Get out some more drink.’

Baldwin was appalled. ‘But my lord . . .’

‘Get out a barrel. Two.’

‘Two!’

‘We have plenty. You said so yourself. If they have not yet earned it, they soon will.’

Baldwin could have cut off his own tongue for breaking the cardinal quartermaster’s rule: never admit to having a full cupboard.

So they squeezed in by the score, cursing at the splinters on the rough-hewn jambs. They joked and jostled and spilled half the free drink – knights, swordsmen, spearmen, archers; grooms,
valets, wagoners; Normans, Bretons, Picards, Angevins; Hollanders, Gascons, Burgundians; men of Brabant, Hainault, Lotharingia, and Franconia; Bavarians, Swabians, and Lombards; a few stark men
from distant Calabria and Apulia, their faces still brown from the Italian sun, their memories full of hair-raising exploits with the Guiscard. There was a noisy knot of men clustered around Fulk
Bloodeye, now apparently recovered, for he was making them guffaw with his jokes. Matthew the Turk hovered darkly behind him.

After shouldering their way through the press outside the hall, Gilbert took a deep breath and hammered on the door with the hilt of his dagger. Drawing his sword was out of the question.

The hubbub died down. To his horror he realised that the next person who had to speak was himself. To his amazement he found himself speaking.

‘Be silent, be silent for the Duke’s noble minstrel, Taillefer FitzArnaud of Prades.’

There was a hush, as if they were expecting him to say something else. But he could not think of anything else to say. He felt terrible. Then he saw Taillefer looking at him in amazement.

‘How did you know that?’

Gilbert felt better then.

‘Sandor told me.’

Taillefer patted him on the shoulder and took him forward with him. They bowed together. There was such a roar that Gilbert thought Ranulf’s new roof was coming off. He seized the chance
to get a seat right by the fire.

Gilbert stared at Taillefer. He had never seen such peace settle on a man’s face, save in death. He was no longer weary and old. Gilbert swore afterwards that the bags under his eyes
disappeared . . .

Taillefer stepped forward without bothering to see whether he was treading on anyone. In that great press, men still found room to wriggle out a path for him. When he reached the blazing hearth
he paused, and looked at the front few rows. Walking along the length of them, he looked at each man in turn. At the end of the line, he swung about, making a great swirl with his cloak as he did
so. Walking to and fro now, with the firelight glittering on his clasps and buckles, his whole figure underlit by the flames, he swept the whole hall with his lofty gaze, regardless of status and
rank.

Gilbert stared again. Taillefer was looking at every man and telling them without words that he was the master. It was as if he were casting a net with his eyes.

Taillefer stopped. A few stray dogs – who came from God knew where – lifted their muzzles and looked curiously at him.

The only sound now was the crackling of the fire.

Taillefer fixed a young Breton with his eye, raised his brows, and allowed a look of disapproval to settle on his face. The Breton stopped peeling the carrot in his hand and looked in alarm at
his comrades on either side. They had their eyes fixed on Taillefer, who now shook his head in mock despair.

One or two soldiers sniggered.

Taillefer stepped forward and took the carrot from the young man’s hand. From his own pocket he produced two onions.

Gilbert would not have believed it possible that a man could do so much with a carrot and a pair of onions. Great Jesus, he was vulgar! But funny! He had men rolling helpless on the ground. And
the noise! Each new joke raised a laugh like a clap of thunder, and just when it was dying away, somebody would be heard coming up for air, and they would start all over again. Taillefer could
stand there doing nothing at all, and men were falling about.